


Remembrance

by Ifitbelove



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-08
Updated: 2015-05-08
Packaged: 2018-03-29 13:50:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3898678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ifitbelove/pseuds/Ifitbelove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joan visits Vera at home, and tries to explain. A sequel to Episode 5: 'Mercy'. <br/>Rather AU in retrospect, in light of Episode 8....</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remembrance

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own these fascinating women....

‘Something on your mind, Vera?’ Joan’s voice cut through the crisp night air. They sat on the porch, empty dinner plates between them and an inch of wine left in the bottle. 

Vera looked sideways at her boss, at her regal profile, sleek dark hair and black eyes that gazed straight ahead. At the woman she could have loved – had loved, without saying so even to herself – until five minutes of terror with a needle at her throat had showed her how little her devotion, or her life, mattered to anyone. 

She cleared her throat. 

‘I was just thinking there was a time when sitting out here with you would have made me so happy that I would have counted a chronic disease and a touch of post-traumatic stress cheap at the price.’ Her throat closed over, her voice tight with bitterness. What was Joan doing here? Vera had told her about her diagnosis yesterday in a text message, not trusting herself to say anything in person, and unable to face her boss’s reaction – or more likely, her lack of reaction. 

Tonight the governor had shown up unannounced, bringing dinner, and while they ate it had made small talk about the house, the traffic, the evening news, some new audit at work. No mention of the riot, or what had followed. Not that Vera wanted to think about it or speak of it, least of all to this woman. But still the weight of things unsaid between them was intolerable. 

At the younger woman’s words, Joan sighed. 

‘Vera – ’

‘Forget it.’

‘You must let me – ’ 

Vera almost laughed. ‘Don’t tell me you came here to apologise?’

‘No.’ Joan’s face tightened and she sat straighter in her chair. ‘I took the appropriate course of action based on the information available to me at the time.’ 

‘Jesus.’ Now Vera did laugh; it was that or snap the stem of the wine glass in her hand. ‘Of course you did.’ 

‘I realise you’re upset – ’ the word made Vera bite her lip until it burned ‘ – but I was trying to protect you.’ Vera sat very still, her fists clenching until the knuckles glowed white. ‘If those animals had seen I had a weakness for you, you would never have had a day’s safety again. Every time they wanted anything they would have come after you. I couldn’t have lived with the strain.’

‘I see.’ Vera’s voice quavered on the edge of hysteria. ‘Yes, I can imagine how hard that might have been for you.’ Something was fluttering in her chest – was this what a nervous breakdown felt like? She said ‘You don’t have a weakness for me. And I won’t have any safe days, ever again.’

‘Vera – ’

‘Leave it.’ Vera breathed out hard, struggling to control herself. She could feel Joan’s eyes upon her, but fixed her own gaze on her mother’s garden: the rocks and plants forming strange huddled shapes in the darkness, glinting here and there with spiderwebs. Some of those trees had been there since Vera’s childhood, but now even they seemed alien, imbued with a strange blank menace. She had tended them, played under them, looked out at them every morning, but although they were alive they cared nothing for her and never could. 

The silence strained between them, the chirrup of insects and the distant whoosh of a car only making it worse. At last Joan asked ‘How are you?’

‘Oh, you know.’ Vera shrugged and bit her tongue. For a moment she imagined what it would feel like to scream until her throat was shredded, to hurl her glass against the wall and watch it explode. To smash this whole hated house to rubble. ‘I’ve been better.’

‘You should get on one of those clinical trials.’ Joan’s voice perked up at once, it seemed to Vera, at the chance to tell someone what to do. ‘I read about one that’s having a seventy per cent success rate at clearing the virus. I know a doctor – ’ 

‘When I needed your help you wouldn’t give it.’ Vera heard her voice shake. ‘I don’t want it now.’

‘Vera, I know you’re in shock, but you can’t afford to be silly about this.’

‘Would you just get out?’ The fury in Vera’s voice amazed even her. But Joan just stared back, her face impassive. The woman seemed impossible to shock, and Vera hardly knew whether to hate or envy her for that. 

Vera covered her face with her hands, smelling her own feverish sweat on her palms, the wine a sour aftertaste. Her fingers clawed through her hair. ‘What are you doing here, anyway?’ she demanded. ‘I know what you’re like about germs – aren’t you scared?’

‘No.’ Joan frowned. ‘The virus is blood-borne, so the risk factor here would be so low as to be practically non-existent – ’

‘Don’t count on it.’ Vera lifted her head. ‘But tell me, really: why are you here? Worried I’ll never come back, and you’ll have to find yourself another sock puppet?’ 

Joan stared; Vera couldn’t tell if she was insulted or just surprised. After a moment, she asked ‘Can’t I feel concerned about a colleague who’s been hurt?’

‘No, I don’t think you can.’ Vera said the words in anger, but then she took her hands away from her face to look at the other woman properly. ‘I mean, you actually can’t. Can you?’

To Vera’s surprise, it was Joan who looked away first. Shrugging, she said ‘Don’t try to diagnose me, Vera. It’s a waste of time.’ She spoke lightly, but Vera noticed that as Joan replaced her own glass on the table her hand was unsteady. ‘They broke the mould when they made me.’ 

‘Thank God for that.’ 

There was a tense silence, then Joan got to her feet. 

‘Well,’ she said, ‘you’ll be wanting to rest, anyway.’ But as she reached for her coat, draped over the chair, Vera felt her own hand twitch as if to stop her. A tiny movement, but Joan noticed, and hesitated. 

‘I, uh…’ Vera cleared her throat, aware of an instinct to apologise, and furious at herself for even considering it. ‘Thanks for the dinner,’ she muttered instead, looking down at her feet. She didn’t want Joan here, but suddenly the thought of the governor leaving, of being alone here again, seemed so much worse. ‘I haven’t felt like cooking lately.’

Joan eyed Vera closely, then put her coat down and sank back into her seat. 

After a moment, she said ‘You came back to work straight away, after the riot. I was impressed. There’s not many who would have had the nerve.’

Vera shook her head. ‘Where else was I going to go?’ She glanced over her shoulder into the house, still stuffed full of Rita’s furniture, photo albums, doilies and knickknacks, and suppressed a shudder. ‘I hate this place.’

‘Sell it.’ Joan reached for another bottle, opening it with a quick twist. ‘Get a flat. I know a tame estate agent.’

‘I’ll think about it.’

‘No sense in hanging onto the past, Vera. Your mother’s gone, and it was for the best.’

Vera stared down at her hands. She whispered ‘Nice touch, reminding me of that.’ 

Joan’s eyes flickered towards her, then the governor went back to refilling their glasses. 

‘No idea what you mean.’

‘You don’t – ’ Vera swallowed. ‘You don’t know what she was like.’ 

‘Oh, I could make a guess.’ There was a hint of a smile in Joan’s voice, but Vera was not about to smile back. 

‘Why do you think I worked so hard? I couldn’t stand going home.’ Vera gave a desperate little laugh. ‘How pitiful is that? Hiding out in a prison.’ 

It took Joan a moment to reply. When she did, her voice was soft, contemplative. She said ‘When I was at school, I despised all the other girls.’ She glanced at Vera over the rim of her glass. ‘All of them. And they thought I was … unusual. But I joined every after-school club there was so I could put off going home.’ She paused. ‘Which, incidentally, is why I can play the glockenspiel.’ 

‘You just made that up.’ 

‘Vera, I wish I had.’

The thought made Vera smile in spite of herself. ‘Don’t tell me you had mother problems too?’

‘No.’ Joan settled back in her chair. ‘No, she thoughtfully removed herself from the picture early on, so there were no problems there.’

‘What, then? Your dad?’

The governor was silent for so long Vera wondered if she’d offended her by asking. But when Joan did speak, her voice was gentle. 

‘Larry Ferguson,’ she murmured. ‘It was Lawrence, really, but he was Larry to everyone, or the Major – until he was invited to leave the army.’ She sipped her wine. ‘Honourable discharge, medical grounds. They didn’t want to humiliate him, but his behaviour had reached the point where they couldn’t turn a blind eye any longer.’ Joan lowered the wine glass. ‘He was humiliated, of course. Thirty years in the services; he’d never known any other life. It ruined him, and us.’

The night had grown colder and clearer; the stars were brilliant. Vera pulled her cardigan tighter around herself; she should go inside and change, but could not bear to interrupt the voice beside her, which was quieter than she’d ever heard it, almost dreamy. 

Joan said ‘My dad was a tall man. He had his suits tailored for him, and they were exquisite. He paid attention to things like that: polished shoes, a good close shave, a perfect double Windsor. In uniform, he was dazzling. And after my mother left, he kept a neat house. Mick – Michael, my brother – hated it, and would move things around and trek dirt across the floor out of spite.’ She frowned. ‘I couldn’t stand him doing that. Larry was only trying to keep things … safe.’

She took another mouthful of wine and went on: ‘But if you’re picturing some anxious fussbudget, think again, because he was a charmer, my dad. Witty, well-read – he could dance a wicked tango, which was unheard of for a man of his background. A hint of aggression about him, maybe, just enough to let people know who was boss. But when he turned those eyes on you, you felt like the most important person in the world.’ 

Joan stretched out her long legs and added ‘A devil with the women, too, or so I assume – my mother was his second wife, fifteen years his junior, and after she left Mick and I had quite a series of aunties. A touch of the Errol Flynns about him – he could even fence, he was my first teacher.’ She smiled. ‘Thirty years in the army, but really Larry Ferguson wanted to be a pirate.’

Vera sat gazing sideways at her boss, her own wine forgotten beside her. She had never heard Joan say a word about her personal life before; it seemed incredible, somehow, to think she had one. 

Joan went on ‘You’ll be surprised to hear that I was not a great success at school. Awkward would be an understatement, and that’s so much worse when you’re already on your way to being bigger than any of the teachers. The lessons were too easy, and the other children too difficult. So hard to understand why I should laugh at jokes that weren’t funny, or join in games that weren’t interesting, or why it wasn’t all right to stare at other girls.’ She shook her head. ‘Larry did his best. He threw me birthday parties, whizzed the kids around in his new car, pulled his James Bond act on the other girls’ mothers until they had no choice but to invite me over. And he talked to me about people – what they wanted, what they were scared of, how to … persuade them. He said dealing with people was just like a maths puzzle or learning a language: you paid attention, put in the effort, learned the rules so you could bend them. And he was dead against fighting – lose your temper, lose the argument, he would say.’ Joan hesitated, then added ‘Not that he always practised what he preached there. But it was remarkable, sometimes, how he could get himself under control when the police came to the door. So I suppose he did try. And it was kind of him to do all that for me.’ She nodded to herself. ‘That’s why I try to mentor younger people now.’ 

Vera sat still, afraid to break the spell of this story, intrigued by what the other woman was saying, and by the fact she was saying it to her. In a careful tone, Vera asked ‘Why did the police come to your door?’

Joan turned away, her face tightening. She said ‘Well, it didn’t happen often. Back then, neighbours tended to mind their own business, and they sympathised with Larry, they knew he’d had a bad war. But when he really got going…’ She shook her head. ‘He smashed up the living room, once. Every stick of furniture broken, and he killed Mick’s dog. We were supposed to say we’d had burglars.’ 

The governor put down her glass and breathed out slowly. ‘I never blamed him. I blamed the war, the Japanese, the drink, my mother for leaving. Or myself, for being…’ A muscle twitched in her face. ‘Well, on a bad night Larry didn’t hold back with the constructive criticism. “You’re the reason your mother left, I never wanted you, she only did it to trap me, you’re not even mine…”’ Joan traced the rim of her wine glass, her face expressionless. ‘And of course, “you’re useless, you’re ugly, and why can’t you be more like Loretta Young?”’ Her lips twitched. ‘I’ve no idea where he got that last one from, although it’s an interesting question.’ 

‘He shouldn’t have said any of that to you.’ Vera’s voice shook. Her fingers quivered, wanting to reach over and touch the other woman, but she sensed that would be the worst thing to do. Joan shrugged. 

‘I don’t know. Like I said, he was so devoted at other times. And he did have delusions, bad dreams – twice I woke up with a gun barrel to my head and Larry crouched there with sweat pouring down his face, whispering that he had to do it, had to get us all out of here before they came back.’ 

‘They?’ Vera’s hands were trembling, from the cold and the pictures taking shape in her mind. Joan rubbed the space between her eyes. 

‘It was just a couple of weeks before the fall of Singapore that Larry was shipped out there. He never saw combat, never even got the chance to break in his boots before he was captured. And that bothered him, I think; maybe it was why he stayed in the army afterwards. Malaya, Korea – he won a chest full of medals. He always had something to prove.’ 

Taking a breath, Joan went on: ‘Can you blame me if I get impatient with these bleeding-hearts who talk about brutality in our prisons?’ She laughed, almost the first time Vera had heard her do so. There was nothing humorous about it. ‘Brutality? Why – because I took the prisoners’ television sets off them for a few weeks? Larry was sent to the railway. The Hellfire Pass, where they flogged him with bamboo canes if he didn’t work fast enough or bow deeply enough. He had the scars for the rest of his life. One friend of his, the guards beat him to death and made Larry and the other men watch.’ Vera looked at the governor’s hands clenching and opening at her sides. ‘I saw a photo of him once, taken afterwards in the rehab hospital. He was a big man, my dad, but when they liberated the camp he was a skeleton.’ Joan stared out across the darkened yard. ‘Three years in that place, and when he came out he wasn’t Larry any more.’

Silence fell, and Vera shut her eyes, searching in vain for something to say. ‘I’m sorry’, or ‘how awful’, seemed impossibly trite, almost insulting. 

Then Joan said abruptly ‘Or is that true? After all, I was born long after the war; I never knew Larry before it. I put all his difficulties down to what happened there, but what if the war wasn’t to blame?’ She turned to look at Vera, her gaze intense. ‘What if it’s just … something in us?’

Again Vera longed to reply, to offer some reassurance, but the words wouldn’t come. She wondered what Larry Ferguson would have thought of his daughter’s choice of job, but was not about to say that either. 

Instead she asked ‘When did your father pass away?’

‘When I was fourteen. Mick and I were separated; welfare put us into children’s homes. Which turned out to be just what I needed, actually.’ 

Vera blinked: ‘Really?’

‘Of course.’ Joan straightened her shoulders, her voice hardening again. ‘No better training for a career in the prison system.’

‘Have you – ’ Vera bit her lip helplessly. ‘Have you talked to anyone about this?’

‘I thought I was. Am I boring you, Vera?’

‘For God’s sake.’ Vera exhaled, then lowered her voice. ‘I meant someone – professional.’

‘What, make an appointment with Doctor Bridget?’ That harsh laughter again. ‘Do me a favour.’

‘It’s not shameful to ask for help.’

‘Yes, that’s what everyone says to basket cases.’ Joan rolled her eyes. ‘Anyway, I couldn’t.’

‘What – because you’re too clever to be helped?’ 

‘Obviously.’ Joan braced her hands against the chair for a moment, before rising to her feet. 

In a different voice, she said ‘Vera, I know I don’t give you what you want – much less what you deserve. I hope you can believe I’m sorry for that.’ She reached out to run her fingertips over Vera’s hair, to cup the younger woman’s face and stroke the line of her throat. Her touch made Vera shiver and reach up to cover Joan’s hand with her own. ‘It can’t be done, Vera. And I don’t … I don’t want you to get hurt.’

‘It’s a little late for that.’ Vera couldn’t help herself, but Joan just kept on staring down at her, her dark eyes unreadable, still rubbing a strand of Vera’s hair between her fingers. Then she pulled away.

‘Time I was going.’ 

‘You don’t have to.’ As her boss moved away, Vera got to her feet. ‘Joan? Am I the first person you’ve told about … all this?’ There was no reply. ‘Why wait so long?’ Vera wanted to ask ‘why me?’, but didn’t dare somehow. 

Joan paused. With her back turned, she said ‘It was a mistake.’ Her voice sounded strange now; jagged and shaky. ‘I never meant to do it. I was only looking out for Mick – Larry always laid into him worse. And it was Larry, on his good days, who used to tell me I had to take care of Mick – your baby brother, and everyone knows he’s hardly the brains of the family…’ Joan reached out one hand to grasp the window frame. ‘I was only doing what Larry had told me to. And no one knew what had happened, afterwards. Larry wouldn’t have wanted them to know…’ 

‘Know what?’ Vera stared at her, bewildered. 

The governor gathered up her coat and bag, her movements as precise as always. When she got to the doorway she stopped and turned at last to look back at Vera. A shadow hid her face. 

Joan said ‘I really did love my father, you know. And when I was fourteen, I killed him.’


End file.
